


if your heart was in it, i'd stay a minute

by mountainsounds



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 16:16:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16411784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountainsounds/pseuds/mountainsounds
Summary: Clarke's relationship with Bellamy Blake becomes as notorious as Bellamy Blake himself. He makes snide comments about her parents whenever they pass. She perfects her jelly legs jinx on him. He begins to yell "5 points for Princess!" in every Charms lesson. She convinces the Bloody Baron to haunt him for a week.But she often notices him in the library, hunched over, glasses on the tip of his nose, teeth playing with the edge of his quill as he scribbles notes onto a spare bit of parchment. He pores over books with elusive titles like Modern Magical History and Numerology and Grammatica. It stirs something inside of her to see this side of him that he so deliberately hides from everyone else.AU. Clarke meets Bellamy at Hogwarts, during wartime.





	if your heart was in it, i'd stay a minute

**YEARS 1-4**

Clarke sits besides Wells on the train to Hogwarts that first time.

Her cheeks are flushed pink, peppered with goodbye kisses from her parents on the platform. Her cloak, which had at one point been tied tightly at the base of her throat, is looking lopsided by the time she presses her nose to the window, eyes scanning for them one last time as the train whistles its departure.

"Do you think anyone's ever not gotten into a House?" Wells asks her, brandishing his wand yet again in hopes that some sparks might shoot out of it. Clarke has learned very little magic, but she's confident that whatever motion he's been attempting for the past ten minutes is about the furthest thing from proper form.

Stifling a giggle, she turns her attention away from the window and back to her best friend. Her mother and father will be just an owl away, and she's finally free from all the pretension that had riddled her childhood.

"You'd probably be the first."

Clarke is relieved to have him. Throughout adolescence, Wells had always reserved a certain kindness for her, suffering by her side through countless dinner parties with ministry officials, making faces at her across the room while the Head of This droned on about the Department of That. They had played fake Quidditch, running around with sticks balanced between their legs, in the backyard of her summer home every year for as long as she could remember. Clarke has always considered him the only friend who actually knows her--possibly her only friend at all.

And she loves him. Perhaps not in the way that her mother would prefer, but there is a companionship between them unlike anything Clarke's ever known.

He's chewing on his lip, so she kicks him in the shin from across the compartment. "Wells, relax. You're going to excel wherever you get placed, you know that."

"Says you, miss Slytherin born and bred."

She sticks her tongue out at him. "I could  _not_  end up there, you know. And then what would my mom think of me? I'd be disowned." It's a joke, but an unsettling one none-the-less.

"Well, then maybe we'll be in the same House. I'm not sure I'll know how to make friends without you."

Clarke knows the feeling.

It is true, though, that she's hoping to continue her mother's legacy, having given almost no thought to the other houses. She turns the word  _slytherin_  over in her mind as if the more she thinks it, the more she can dream it into being.

As they charge full-speed away from King's Cross Station, the compartment door slides open and a boy peeks his head inside, a look of awe splayed across his face as he sizes the two of them up. He looks around their age, with bright, molten eyes, tanned skin and unkempt dark hair that sticks out in more directions than Clarke has fingers. A trail of freckles is lightly dusted across his nose, and he's tall, with gangly limbs that aren't yet proportionate to the rest of his body.

"Can I help you?" she asks, keeping her voice polite. She had been hoping to sit with Wells alone, trying to work up the courage to tell him what she'd overheard her parents talking about the previous night.

A corner of the boy's lips turns upward in a smirk. "Everyone's saying the Minister of Magic's son is in here. I just wanted to see for myself."

"That'd be me," says Wells with a grimace.

He and Clarke exchange a look. Though she too came from an affluent Wizarding family, descended from a long line of Slytherins, she had been hoping to slip under the radar, given the fact that her mother's surname holds most of the notoriety. For Wells, however--it would have taken enormous effort to miss Thelonious Jaha and his security detail marching around Platform 9¾.

Wells is desperate to be his own person, but that proves difficult when his name is paraded around every morning in the  _Daily Prophet_. She rests a hand on his knee to comfort him.

"Yeah, he is," Clarke tells the freckled boy with pride. "Did you need something?"

The boy snorts. "What are you, his girlfriend?" She is used to that assumption, but her cheeks still heat.

"No," she snaps.

"His secretary, then?"

"Her dad's Jake Griffin, the Head of Magical Law Enforcement," Wells explains, in an attempt to be helpful. It earns nothing but a scowl from their new classmate.

"Ah, a prince and his princess," he says, eyeing them with caution.

Clarke feels a flash of annoyance. She's no one's anything.

She catches his eyes lingering on her freshly pressed robes, and the shiny new Hogwarts badge her mother had pinned to her chest earlier that morning. The boy's, in turn, are rather tattered; they're about three inches too short, which somehow gives him the appearance of looking even more gangly. She's self-conscious all of a sudden, the badge burning a hole in her chest.

"I'm Clarke Griffin. And you're...?"

"Bellamy Blake. This is Nathan Miller." He jerks his finger behind him, motioning to a silent, dark-skinned, dark-haired boy at his heels. She hadn't even realized someone else had been standing there. "Don't worry, princess--I was just leaving. Nice robes, by the way. Very fancy." Bellamy articulates the last word with a hint of malice, and the door slides closed.

Clarke shuts her eyes as if to will the conversation away.

She is highly aware of her privilege; both her and Wells are. She knows she's wealthier than others, mostly because her mother buys her the new Cleansweep model every year for her birthday, and Clarke doesn't even fully understand the rules of Quidditch. She's been spoiled, for lack of a better word, but not without a fight. She has spent years rejecting her mother's evening gowns and galas and fundraisers, mouthing off to adults higher up than she is, and, in general, resisting the social hierarchy of the wizarding world that's been in place for years. Being a 'princess' is not exactly the stereotype she wants to carry with her to a new school.

She's proud of her parents, though. Her father fights evil--he's about as good a man as they get in the world she's been born into--and her mother, a former Healer at St. Mungo's, is now one of the Minister's Undersecretaries. Wealthy or not, they do a great deal of good for the community, and they care, as Clarke does, about prominent issues. She's not about to apologize for that, especially to people like Bellamy Blake.

She doesn't need to explain it to Wells, either. He's always understood.

"Have you heard anything about--the Mountain Men?" She tastes the words on her tongue, turning to him. They should have this conversation now before they're separated into different houses.

"Depends. What have you heard about them?"

"My parents were talking about them last night. It kinda seemed serious."

Wells chuckles, alleviating a few of the knots in her stomach. "I don't think so, Clarke. Just a bunch of pureblood narcissists trying to talk the talk. It's not even a real organization. He doesn't really let on, but I'm pretty sure my dad's seen it a lot."

"As someone who comes from a line of pureblood narcissists, I wouldn't put it past anyone to act on radical ideas like that."

He purses his lips in thought. "Fair, but people are happy. If something's brewing, my dad will know before it happens."

"True. I just--can't imagine what people would have against the Ministry these days, you know?"

Wells presses his foot against hers, a comforting gesture. "Wouldn't be the wizarding world without a looming blood purity war."

"Oh, that's supposed to make me feel better?" She laughs, and it's hollow.

"Come on, Clarke. Not gonna happen anytime soon."

"Don't you worry about your parents?"

"Of course I do. But they're not worried."

She's confident that it's a parent's job not to let their kids know they worry about anything, but refrains from pointing this out to Wells, biting her tongue instead. "If you say so."

"Hey." Wells meets her eyes. "You and I, we're completely fine. Hogwarts is the safest place there is, you know that."

"That's not really what I'm worried about," she mutters.

Hours later, after Clarke has the opportunity to sketch some of the passing scenery, they're distracted from mindless chatter and cauldron cakes by a loud whistle. The train is screeching to a halt at their final destination. But also maybe their first, she thinks, sentimental. There's a looming uncertainty that hangs over the castle in the distance.

She's walking into the beginning of everything.

"Come on," Wells stands and yanks open the door of the apartment. "Ready to get sorted?"

  
*

  
Clarke is welcomed to the Slytherin table with a roar of applause. The Great Hall is buzzing. They all know who she is, what her mother's done, what her father's doing. She hears a guy, maybe a few years older than her, whisper, "We got the Griffins' daughter!" and flushes with pride. Her father is a Hufflepuff, so she would have been happy there as well, but there's something intoxicating about being claimed by the house of ambition.

Her mother's house. She's going to be so proud of Clarke.

Wells is sorted into Hufflepuff, prompting the table to erupt into a noisier praise. For a quick moment, one separate from all the hoots and hollers, Clarke tries to meet his eyes, but he already has inquisitive, eager faces descending upon him, firing off questions about what it's like to live with the Minister and piling his plate with pumpkin pasties. It's the loyalty, she knows. He'll be happy there. He'll belong.

Bellamy lands in Gryffindor with his friend from the train, Miller.

Clarke's not caught off guard by that. Her parents have never said anything unbecoming about any of the houses, really, only enforced that it's the companionship and cooperation between them that makes for a gratifying time at Hogwarts. But they've mentioned the lean towards certain characteristics, and Gryffindors happen to be reckless and brash and irresponsible. Which she already knows Bellamy is.

"Looks like we're sworn enemies, Slytherin princess," he whispers to her as he slides between their two tables to reach his new housemates. "This should be fun."

  
*

  
Once she settles in, Clarke is enamored by Hogwarts.

She spends her weekends in the clock tower courtyard writing long letters to her father (which she sends out with her new tawny owl, Madi) and watching Roma, Murphy and Emori play Exploding Snap. In the evenings, she sprawls out in the Slytherin common room with her housemates, occasionally braiding and twisting Monroe's hair while they discuss the latest Puddlemere United game and their shared crush on the Head Boy from Ravenclaw.

However, Clarke comes to the quick realization that not every Slytherin can be trusted. There are traces of elitism that run through her house like a silent poison that everyone suffers from but no one cares to mention. (Funny how her mother never brought it up in the onslaught of Slytherin propaganda that had been her childhood.) Even Murphy, whom she considers a friend, still uses derogatory terms for non-purebloods. There's a guy, Dax, in her year who hexes other students for fun. Some of the older students, like Cage Wallace and his cronies, Emerson and Lovejoy, bend their heads together in the common room, exchanging stories about dark magic and snickering about who to use it on.

Clarke collects these unpleasant anecdotes and tucks them into the back of her mind for a rainy day. Students don't always appreciate her sentiments, and by the end of her first year, she's made her opinions very known, speaking out in classes about Muggle-born and house elf equality and telling off elitist housemates every chance she gets. She's not entirely friendless, but it turns people off sometimes. They avoid her in the halls, eyes sliding past her as if she's made of invisibility cloak.

She stills sees Wells enough, though it's less. She pairs up with him in Herbology, which they have with the Hufflepuffs, watching him chat, animated, amongst his housemates, all of whom are similarly bright, shiny and happy. He's always done well with spotlight.

Well, that's not Clarke. She's still looking to find her place.

And then there's Bellamy Blake.

Clarke doesn't interact with Bellamy much beyond those first encounters, but she never really forgets about him. In all honesty, he never really lets her forget about him. He becomes infamous for talking back in Charms, sneaking into the kitchens past curfew with Miller, and reportedly finding secret passages out of the castle. In their second year, he lands himself a spot as beater for Gryffindor, and she observes him occasionally during Quidditch games as he narrowly whacks bludgers away from his teammates and grins wildly at his friends Monty and Jasper, curly black hair ruffling in the wind all the while.

If she has to listen to Roma talk about how cute he is one more time, she's going to need to be put on extended bed rest in the hospital wing.

At some point, her relationship with Bellamy Blake becomes as notorious as Bellamy Blake himself. He makes snide comments about her parents whenever they pass. She perfects her jelly legs jinx on him. He begins to yell "5 points for Princess!" in every Charms lesson. She convinces the Bloody Baron to haunt him for a week.

But she often notices him in the library, hunched over, glasses on the tip of his nose, teeth playing with the edge of his quill as he scribbles notes onto a spare bit of parchment. He pores over books with elusive titles like  _Modern Magical History_  and  _Numerology and Grammatica_. It stirs something inside of her to see this side of him that he so deliberately hides from everyone else.

"He's a Mudblood," Murphy tells her one day, following her eyes. Clarke grimaces at the use of the word, throwing her housemate a irritated look. "Must think he needs to catch up on all those years he missed." He returns to the piece of parchment Professor Kane had assigned them--sixteen inches on the uses of unicorn blood. "Careful, Griffin, or someone might hex you for getting caught up with a Gryffindor."

She learns things about Bellamy in pieces. He comes from a poor background, and for a Muggle at that. His mother's an addict; his dad left when he was young. No wonder he hates her so much, she thinks. This life must be his saving grace, and she's been beyond blessed with it.

That year, they have History of Magic with the Gryffindors, and Clarke again is drawn to Bellamy's wandering eyes, his sharp intakes of breath when Professor Sydney discusses old Wizarding Wars and stories of giants and merpeople. She finds his fascination fascinating.

  
*

  
In her third year, she meets a boy.

Finn has a bright smile and a kind heart. And soft, shaggy brown hair, the kind they make posters of Quidditch players for. They make eye contact every so often during Transfiguration and chatter on the way out of class, leaving Clarke rosy-cheeked and flushed. He is sweet and affable and her heart soars when he answers questions in class, advocating for peace like its his religion. Their encounters are fleeting, but warmth pools in the pit of her stomach anyhow, and after a particularly gruelling lesson on turning rat tails to teacups, he asks her to attend Hogsmeade with him over the weekend.

"What's up with you and Finn Collins?" Monroe presses the next morning at breakfast. Word travels quickly around Hogwarts, a fact that Clarke's used to but not entirely fond of, and she'd been hoping to avoid this conversation for pretty much as long as possible. She prefers keeping her head down.

"Uh, nothing." Her face reddens. "I mean, I don't know. We're just going to Hogsmeade on Saturday."

"To Madam Puddifoot's?" Monroe sighs, and although Finn makes her stomach do somersaults, the dreamy look in her friend's eyes makes Clarke want to vomit.

"Hopefully just the Three Broomsticks. I'm not really the romance type." She rests her chin in her hand. "Merlin, you're making me nervous."

"Don't be! What are you going to wear?" Roma squeals, inserting herself into the conversation from across the table, and when Emori joins them, the four girls bend their heads together, whispering in hushed tones about her imminent date.

For all intents and purposes, Clarke knows she's attractive. She doesn't necessarily agree with the assessment half the time, but she feels the way people's eyes follow her in class, notices how boys have begun to smile at her more. There's something to be said for her stoicism. With age, her aloof demeanor has become a challenge, consistently drawing others to her.

She can even see it in the way Bellamy looks at her (and she tries, desperately, not to notice). His eyes rake over her when they pass in the hallways, sometimes, despite all the animosity that lies behind them. She feels him watching her in the stands at Quidditch games, the way she's grown accustomed to watching him.

The more often she sees him, the more she begins to realize how objectively attractive he's become. He's shot up in height, maybe two heads taller than her now, with hair that's settled since the first time they met, curling curiously at the ends. His shoulders are broader, jaw is defined. Like her, he's lost some of his baby weight. It's the look of someone older, more mature, and catches her breath every once in a while.

His personality, however, does not appear to have been affected.

"Heard you got a boyfriend, princess," he barks at her one Sunday, holding out a hand to stop her in her tracks in the seventh floor corridor.

"Don't you have anything better to do, Bellamy? Like walk into the Whomping Willow?" she asks, fighting to keep her voice even.

"Didn't mean to hit a nerve." He cocks an eyebrow. "Collins? Really?"

Clarke sticks her nose in the air, offering him a tight-lipped smile. "As if your opinion on anything I do matters to me."

"Anything or anyone?" he asks cheekily.

"My personal life is none of your business." She feels her cheeks heating. "Go to hell."

"I guess I'll see you there," he muses, chuckling. "You really have a thing for Hufflepuffs, don't you?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Jaha not doing enough for you or something?"

She would ignore Bellamy, she really would, if she didn't find him so damn interesting. He's an asshole, but there's more to him than a cheeky smirk and an aggression problem. His close proximity sends a shiver down her spine and her breathing into an uneven pace, and it's confusing, more than anything, considering that she's also overcome with unbridled anger.

"Don't make this about Wells, Bellamy," Clarke says, bristling.

"Is that all you do to pass the time? Parade around with your rich little boy toys, waiting for your daddies to send you more Galleons--"

"Bugger off, Blake," she spits out. "Just because your dad didn't love you doesn't mean you have to shit on mine."

She knows she's taking it a step too far before the words fully make it out of her mouth, but it's her  _dad_. He's the one person that remains untouchable to her, and this stupid, impetuous, cocky boy isn't allowed to have anything to say about it. Clarke's actually known for being one of the kinder Slytherins--if anything, she does too much to make her morals known--but something about Bellamy's crude demeanor and surly attitude gets her worked up, and not in a good way. It's not like she's an easy target. A solid punching bag, maybe, but she's still one that punches back.

Bellamy is silent for a beat, but she spies a vein throbbing in his neck that hadn't been so prominent before. 

"Have fun in Hogsmeade," he says, voice hollow. "Weather should be nice this weekend." He stalks away.

She does have the time of her life in the village with Finn, and after lunch ends up pressed against cobblestone in a back alley while his hands fumble underneath her shirt and feverish lips trail down her neck, an experience that she learns she deeply enjoys.

  
*

  
Come Christmastime, Clarke begins lending a hand in the hospital wing. Okay, so it's not exactly the normal thing for a student to do, let alone a third year, but Jackson, the Healer, is a friend of her mother's, and Clarke enjoys the time they spend together, doting over bottles of Essence of Dittany. He teaches her how to brew Pepperup Potion and Skele-Gro, and she even spends a full week tending to a seventh year who gets Splinched during apparition lessons.

Not to mention, Christmas is her favorite time of year at Hogwarts. The Great Hall is lined with lights, garland and ribbon, the portraits hum holiday tunes, and there's a giant Christmas tree that sings if you tickle it in just the right place. Owls tuck in and out of the corridors with elegantly wrapped gifts. It's impossible not to be in a cheery mood.

She's spending the winter holidays in the castle this year, as her parents are traveling with Jaha and a few other ministry officials.  _Just business, and your father's swamped at work_ , her mother had written her at the beginning of the month.  _You'll just have to celebrate with Wells for all of us!_

She mostly celebrates with Jackson and fifteen cases of the common cold.

"Griffin, you're a godsend," he's saying as her mind drifts back to the task at hand, sorting porcupine needles. "Do you mind checking on that last bed before you head out for the evening? It was just a stitching spell, but I need that arm rewrapped in case."

Per Jackson's request, she makes her way over to the other end of the hospital wing, towards a young girl who's slouched down in her cot, grinding her teeth together in impatience. The large, doe eyes are familiar; the dark hair sweeping down to her elbows, not so much. She's striking, despite her small stature, but she can't be more than a first year.

"Hi," Clarke says with a tiny wave, bending down to her eye level. "I'm Clarke. Mind if I take a look?"

The girl sighs, clearly restless. "The healing part hurts more. I just wanna go."

"You're Gryffindor?" A nod. "We're almost done, just hang on for a few more. Don't want you running around unstitching yourself." Clarke offers her a steady smile. "Can I ask what happened?"

"I jumped into the Black Lake."

That garners a laugh from Clarke as she begins to unwrap the girl's leg bandage, running her fingers over the smooth stitching for any signs of discomfort or bruising. Gryffindors are always getting up to the weirdest shit, like running around the Forbidden Forest naked or lighting themselves on fire for a dare. There have been a couple that have come in from sex-related injuries, but to Clarke's dismay, Jackson sends her back to the common room when that happens. "The Black Lake in December? You must be a brave witch," she says, not missing the proud puff of her patient's chest.

These little interactions, though seemingly unimportant, are the reason she wants to become a Healer. Clarke prides herself on her bedside manner. Students find her amiable and she's happy to occasionally indulge a bit of rule-breaking, so she's not surprised when the girl deems her worthy enough to say, "My name's Octavia."

"That's a pretty name." Octavia beams, and Clarke passes her another little grin. "Nice to meet you, Octavia. You know--word on the street is there's a giant squid in the Black Lake. Is that what did this to you?"

The girl sighs. "No, I don't know what it was. Cut myself on a stupid plant, I think. A fifth year pulled me out. But I'll look for it next time."

"Of course, next time." Clarke pleads to Merlin there won't actually be a next time, but knows better than to say anything to a Gryffindor. A little lioness like that only breaks more rules when given them. "Well, you're going to be just fine. Jackson will probably let you go today--he just likes to be stingy with new patients so they think twice before getting up to any more trouble."

Octavia giggles. "I'll think twice, but that doesn't mean I won't do it again."

"Who am I to tell you otherwise?"

"There's just so much to explore," the girl murmurs, perhaps to herself. There's a far-off look in her eye.

"You're a first year, I don't blame you. It's pretty incredible, huh?" She smiles warmly at Octavia, flashing back to her own adventures around the castle for those first few months.

Octavia wrings her hands together in excitement, returning the smile. "I'm Muggle-born, too," she explains fervently, and her amazement makes more sense. Talking portraits, the movement of the staircases, the differences in classwork... Even Clarke wishes, sometimes, that she could experience her world with a new eye. Perhaps she'd appreciate it more.

Octavia cocks her head to the side. "Are you a pureblood?" she asks.

"How'd you know?"

"Well...you work here, but you're pretty young, which must mean that you know a lot already. Or that you know someone really high up on the totem pole of, like, status, or something. Also, you just seem kind of intense. I mean, not disinterested or anything, but--familiar with all of this." The girl gestures about the room.

Clarke bites her lip, face twisting in apprehension, but the Octavia's eyes are curious, intrigued. No aspect of her question contains a trace of hostility. She's awestruck, if anything. "Are you sure you're not a Ravenclaw?"

They continue with harmless chatter for a while after that, with Octavia describing what she's been learning in her classes, providing a lengthy synopsis on how long it had taken her to perfect a simple levitation charm and rattling off personal questions to Clarke about her own childhood and upbringing. She seems to push herself pretty hard, especially for a Muggle-born, and possesses this kind of innate curiosity and need to understand everything that's admirable for someone her age. And all while being disgustingly charismatic.

Clarke is finishing rewrapping her wound when the doors to the hospital wing fly open.

" _O!_ "

Bellamy is striding towards them, and Clarke's stomach lurches at the distinguishable growl. She scans the premises, confirming her assumption that Jackson had gone to the store cupboards for more supplies, and subconsciously retreats a few steps from Octavia's bed.

Merry Christmas to her. Now she gets to deal with this asshole.

"Bell--how'd you find out I was in here?" Octavia moans.

 _Bell_.

Clarke, always quick on her feet, puts two and two together in record time. She had, after all, recognized the eyes, though there was also something to be said for the recklessness, the curiosity. The charm.

"My sister, my responsibility," he chides Octavia. His voice is biting, but his eyes are frantic and full of concern as he bends down, scanning her arms and legs for injury. "Blimey, O, you can't last three months without doing something absolutely mad?"

It's the first time Clarke has seen Bellamy act remotely human in such close proximity, but because she knows how severe his anger can be, particularly when misdirected, she interjects, trying to take some of the heat off of Octavia. "Blake."

He looks up at her standing limply over his sister, and gives her the once over in her frumpy nurse's robes. "Princess."

"Do you two know each other?" Octavia asks, eager.

"We've met," Bellamy says, short. Clarke feels a pang of offense to that, but supposes she isn't sure how else he can explain their convoluted relationship to his little sister.

He nods at her to continue and watches carefully as she secures the bandage on his sister's leg. It's only then that Clarke grabs him by the arm and hauls him to the other end of the wing. She's not in the mood for their bickering to irritate any patients.

"Can I see a real doctor, Griffin? We don't need your charity," he snaps once Octavia's out of earshot.

"Oh,  _there_  it is. I could feel your judgment coming off in waves."

"I'd be more comfortable if Octavia--"

"Your comfort doesn't matter to me," she snaps, crossing her arms. "What am I supposed to do, not take care of her because she's your sister? Right. It's my job, Bellamy." She catches herself bothered that she has to leave him to deal with Octavia, to recount to his sister Clarke's callousness and all the things she's done to warrant hatred from the Blake family. But that's their reality; there's not much she can do to fix it.

"I don't know, maybe don't encourage her, princess."

"I'm not!"

"You've spent, what, five minutes with her and she's already looking at you like you hung the moon," he snarls.

Well, that she certainly didn't expect. She bites back a laugh. "Jealousy isn't a very good look on you, Blake."

"Everything's a good look on me," he retorts, and to his surprise, she smacks him upside the head. " _Ow_."

"Don't be a dick. Also, give her a little credit. She's eleven, not five."

"Didn't stop you from being a pain in my ass."

"You're one to talk." She tosses him a pointed glare. "Seriously, I'm encouraging her? Do I need to remind you all the trouble you got into first year?"

He pauses, amusement playing at his stupidly perfect lips. "Didn't know you were paying attention, princess."

Clarke rolls her eyes, a force of habit in a forced interaction. "Look, she's fine, okay? I get that you have this whole 'doting mother' thing going on, but you can shove it. Jackson's going to clear her the minute he gets back." At his look of protest, she raises a hand to silence him. "I know you don't trust me, but I know what I'm doing. I'm only allowed to help with small things, anyway, and I'm not about to let something bad happen to your sister. Especially a little scratch. Okay?"

Bellamy's nose wrinkles, the way it does when he leans into a book he's really interested in. Clarke curses herself for noticing.

"I'm just trying to help," she adds. "I didn't even know you had a sister." 

"I raised her myself, mostly," Bellamy shrugs. Clarke glances back over at Octavia, who's now chatting up the bed next to her, a second year with swollen spider bites up and down his arms. His hostility has subsided for the time being, and it's clear he's not open to any questions, but she wants to know more.

Because how  _did_  he raise her by himself? What really happened to his parents? Is there no one else, no family they can turn to for help? Where do they live? How does he get money for books and robes and school supplies? Octavia must be something like eleven--what does he do when she asks  _him_  onslaughts of questions?

"Impressive," Clarke relents, instead. "She seems like a badass."

Bellamy pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "It's like she wants me to spend Christmas alone, though, Merlin. I swear, with the shit she gets up to."

"You don't go home?" It's a fairly stupid question, all things considered.

"Not this year."

"Me neither." He looks at her funny, as though he can't fathom why she wouldn't return to a life full of daisies and rolling around in her Gringotts vault. He has a faint scar on his lip, Clarke notices.

"Okay, well, have a good Christmas, then, Griffin." He feigns annoyance a little, his way of trying to play nice. "Thanks for being so hospitable to us lowly folk."

As Clarke slips away through the double doors and into the fourth floor corridor, she distinctly hears Octavia whisper, "Wow, she's pretty, Bell!"

There's a grin on her face for the rest of the day.

  
*

  
The rest of the holidays fly by, followed by January, February and March, and by April, Clarke and Octavia have become rather fast friends. It isn't for a lack of avoidance on Clarke's part, either. She knows Bellamy would prefer his sister dance naked in front of the entire Great Hall than pick Clarke Griffin to be her one and only confidante, but she gets the impression that when Octavia makes her mind up about something, no one gets to deny her, even Bellamy.

The thing is that Octavia asks  _so_  many questions. Clarke is her primary source of information into the wizarding world, apart from what Bellamy's already taught her, and so Clarke spends most of her study time recounting stories about growing up in St. Mungo's and diving a little too deeply into certain topics like the Ministry of Magic and blood purity. Whatever, Clarke figures, Bellamy's not going to sue her for teaching his sister how to be a good person.

Their time together is amusing yet exhausting, half because Clarke has no reason to want to relive her childhood and half because she's too accustomed to it to find it interesting anymore. But Octavia does, so she obliges.

They're sitting with Wells in the library one day when Octavia treads the topic that's been plaguing Clarke's mind instead, asking what she knows of the Mountain Men, and the Slytherin almost chokes on the quill she'd been chewing.

"Where in Merlin's name did you hear that?"

Octavia just shrugs, so Clarke lowers her voice. "Seriously, Octavia. If your brother knew you were talking about this kind of stuff--"

The girl rolls her eyes, as if she's tired of Clarke using Bellamy as an excuse to tip-toe around everything. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

Uneasiness trickles down Clarke's spine. What's interesting isn't even that Octavia asks, because, were their positions reversed, Clarke knows she too would be clamoring for any information she could find. Given the current situation, she practically already is, so she can't blame her friend. But in general, she's never considered other students knowing what the Mountain Men are, apart from herself and Wells. After spending her first year probing every conversation looking for some sort of name-drop of the organization, she had come to the conclusion that the group is simply too high-stakes, too otherworldly, to be impacting her here at Hogwarts. They had yet to breach the walls of the castle.

So she just says, "Interesting. Well, I don't know much about it."

And it's true that she doesn't. All Clarke knows about the so-called Mountain Men is that they're a group of pureblood witches and wizards who had banded together and were wreaking havoc in the mountains, destroying Muggle villages looking for Muggle-borns and building ties with the troll and giant populations there. Whether it had been the papers or the group itself who had dubbed them the 'Mountain Men', no one could be certain. Clarke had heard her parents discussing an attack of theirs at the start of her first year, and they're dealing with it, and she's not allowed to know anything about it. Period.

Clarke chances a look at Wells, who is suddenly staring way too intensely at his Defense Against the Dark Arts homework.

"Yeah, right. Why'd you both just get so weird, then?" Octavia asks, tossing her hair and looking between them. Always one to call it like it is.

Clarke sighs, rubbing her temples. "It's just not something we should talk about here," she says, even though she doesn't have much to tell the girl.

"Alright, so when?"

"Not right now," she says, exasperated.

Octavia continues to look back and forth between them, trying to pick her battles, before caving, "Fine." She purses her lips at Clarke. "I have to get to class anyway, but now that I know it's important, you should know I'm probably not going to let it go."

She collects her books in one fell swoop, and disappears around a bookcase.

"Okay." Clarke turns to Wells, heart racing a little. "What the fuck?"

"Quality Monday morning conversation," he says, looking tired. He finishes marking something on his parchment and drops his quill to the desk, scratching his chin. "I don't know what to say, if I'm being honest."

"Maybe something to make me feel better?" Clarke asks hopefully.

"I didn't know people our age knew anything about it," he settles on instead.

"I looked for months and I didn't see or hear a single thing."

"I know."

"I mean, I  _scoured_  this damn library."

"I know, Clarke."

"I mean--parents might know?" She shrugs. "Word travels fast about those kind of things, right? Parents might tell their kids if they were involved, as long as they stayed quiet. But the Blakes haven't got any parents."

Wells shakes his head. "Maybe that's the point."

"You think they're in with the Mountain Men," she guesses.

"No. Not little firecracker," he assures her, gesturing vaguely to the direction Octavia left in. "Bellamy? Maybe."

"Like--they're recruiting students?"

"What, you don't think it's possible?"

"We're just so young," she implores him.

Wells looks at her so grimly, she feels a pang in her gut. "That's probably the point, Clarke. If you infiltrate the system at a young age, you have soldiers in a couple of years."

"Soldiers to do what, though? Take the Ministry?" she asks, incredulous. When all is said and done, though, this affects Wells even more than it does her. She wonders how long he had been sitting on this theory. "They're good people, Wells. It's Bellamy."

"Yeah, but don't you kind of hate the guy?"

"It doesn't mean I think he's evil!"

"Okay, okay." He rubs his hands together in deep thought.

She lowers her voice, biting her lip. Inside, her stomach is twisting itself in panic, especially for Octavia, whom she knows flounces around the castle without a care in the world or worry of who she's talking to. "The Blakes are Muggle-borns. What would the Mountain Men want with them anyway?"

Wells seems to notice that she's working herself up about something, because he nudges her foot under the table with his own. "You're jumping to conclusions," he says, voice quiet, though it had been his idea in the first place, and that's not lost on Clarke. "I'm sure they're fine."

She hopes so.

Octavia blabbing 'Clarke got super weird when I brought up dark magic' replays in her head every night, so she can only imagine how evil Bellamy's going to think she is now. Maybe the Blakes have a stern conversation about it, but Octavia never brings the topic up after that. In fact, she begins to train all of her energy into making Bellamy and Clarke friends instead, which Clarke finds to be another unnecessary evil.

"I think you'd really like each other," Octavia whines to her not a week later. They're at one of the last Quidditch games of the season--Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff--and Clarke has foregone some time with Finn, who's heckling profanities at the crimson-clad team, in favor of cheering with the younger Blake. No one seems to care enough about having a Slytherin in the Gryffindor student section to say anything, but her green-and-silver scarf stands out like a sore thumb.

"Once again, I have literally nothing to contribute to this topic," she grumbles. "No offense, but do you talk about anything other than Bellamy?"

"You're right. Maybe I should get a boyfriend," Octavia says. "I've never had anyone to talk boys with. Gryffindor team's full of cute ones, though." She clucks her tongue in approval as a kid named Atom whizzes by the stands on his broom, and Clarke has to laugh at the idea of Octavia trying to catch the eye of one of Bellamy's teammates. Nothing good could come from that; she would bet her own broom on it.

"Wow, no, that is so not what I meant." She grins a little. "Your brother would kill me, and then you, and then light us both on fire." She and Bellamy are certainly not friends, by any means, but he's cut back on the familial-based insults, at least, and nods to her on occasion.

"But it'd be fun, right? You're having fun with Finn?"

Clarke's cheeks color, her mind returning to the previous night they’d spent ravishing every inch of each other’s bodies. She's lucky Octavia's eyes are trained on Bellamy, following his every move, a blur of crimson with a beater bat in hand, because the odd, distant smile that overcomes her face is downright embarrassing. "Yeah, I really like him. But I'm pretty sure I never wanted to have a boyfriend when I was your age."

"You say that like you're my mom, Clarke. I'm only two years younger than you."

"Yeah, but you're going through...puberty." Clarke is, without a doubt, going to die by Bellamy Blake's hand.

"Aren't you, too? Technically?"

"I'm still old enough to have a boyfriend."

Octavia throws her a look that clearly says,  _are you, though?_ , then decides to try another angle. "Well, Bellamy says Finn's a jerk."

"Yeah, well, Bellamy's a jerk."

Octavia shrugs. "Fair enough."

They fall into a short silence as Hufflepuff scores with the Quaffle, causing the students around them to erupt in a loud series of swears and screams.

"Did he say why he thinks that?" Clarke asks, trying to keep her voice as light as possible while she raises it to compete with the noise.

"Probably because you're the only girl in this school who won't give him the time of day, and Finn has your attention," Octavia raises back.

The crowd dies down.

Perhaps if Bellamy was willing to say more than three sentences to her at a time, Clarke would consider that as a theory, but right now, she can call bullshit on it. "Yeah, right. I don't think Bellamy could care less about who I spend my free time with. Or, he does care, but only when it comes to you." She pauses. "Why are we still talking about this?"

Octavia elbows her in the side. "You're dumb, Clarke." She flashes her a smile. "Now pay attention, you need to finally learn how Quidditch works."

  
*

  
That October, when her fourth year is entering full swing, Clarke finds Finn sucking face with some girl behind a statue near Ravenclaw tower. The inconspicuous setting makes sense because the girl whose face he's sucking is attached to a Ravenclaw. Raven Reyes is a thin, leggy brunette with nothing but fire behind her eyes, and is vaguely recognizable from the few classes Clarke has had with her. She might be one of the most attractive girls Clarke has ever seen--if she hadn't been with Finn, maybe Clarke would have hit on her--but now, she tries with desperation to shove that thought from her mind.

Their altercation results in Finn being hexed by one, if not both, of them and sends Clarke back to her common room in a fit of tears.

In the days that follow, she finds herself cooped up in her four-poster eating chocolate frogs until her stomach hurts and, on occasion, sulking in dark classrooms biting her fingernails while Wells pores over his latest Charms paper, his presence warm and steady. As her oldest friend, he is the most accustomed to her practiced style of misery. He had witnessed her earliest heartaches, though they're nothing compared to the emptiness in her chest now. It's not that Clarke has never experienced rejection, because she has. She just feels foolish, to have let this immature boy sway her as he had, filling up her days and her nights and her mind most of all.

Somewhere, underneath all that's happened, Clarke had been aware that their relationship wouldn't last forever. Though he was sweet and boyish, and she had loved him, Finn hadn't lit a fire inside her the way she had been told he would. He hadn't challenged her. He had simply been new and familiar and interested.

It had been nice, for a while, to be loved. Clarke had opened up somehow, not only to him, but, it seemed, to the whole world. She'd taken a breath she hadn't known she was allowed to take. She hadn't been Jake and Abby Griffin's daughter, nor a Slytherin, nor a fierce, aloof fourth year with a studying problem. She had just been Clarke, and it had been enough. 

Now, though, Finn Collins has pieces of her that she'll never get back.

The first day Clarke moves to leave her dormitory, having skipped classes several days in a row for fear of being laughed at (or worse, seeing him), she finds Bellamy stalking his way through the Potions dungeons and leaving only destruction in his wake.

"Did you forget the way to Gryffindor Tower?" she asks as she approaches him from behind, biting back a smile when she sees him register her voice. He's leaning against the wall of the corridor, out of the way of the usual foot traffic--mostly Slytherins making their way to the common room--and she must catch him terribly off guard because he almost stumbles in his hasty whip-around.

She may be imagining it, selfish and keen for a bit of attention, but she swears his eyes light up a bit when they land on her.

"I'm waiting for Kane," he explains, "not that it's any of your business."

His voice, for all its gruffness, causes her heart to jump. Not because it's Bellamy (of course not), but because there's something inviting about the idea of bickering with him, of sinking into the normalcy of an act Clarke has practiced for years. Under the guise of their quips, she can feel like she's the same person she was a week ago, free inside the walls of the castle and her mind, her biggest problem an erratic, played-out relationship with her mother. She can almost pretend she's been put back together.

Bellamy is no Wells. He doesn't treat her like she's made of glass.

So she smiles at him, though it's every bit as lethargic as she feels. "Okay, then I won't pry."

"Yeah? When have you ever done what you're told, princess?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Bellamy raises an eyebrow at her, lips toying with a daring smirk. She realizes, meeting his eyes, that he's referring to  _Octavia_ , and their conversation from the previous year, in the hospital wing, floods to the front of her mind.

"Oh." She sidles nearer to him, heaving her bookbag higher on her shoulder. "Sounds like I'm about to get a big brother scolding. Do I get the opportunity to make my case? Because I promise, I really tried to stay away from your sister."

He peers down at her, their height difference glaringly apparent. "Nah, Octavia loves you. She's been, uh, raving about you, actually."

"Must drive you mad, huh?"

He's got new robes this year, and they're working for him to an unfortunate degree, the crimson and gold badge on his chest drawing out dark flecks in his eyes. "Not really. I can see where she's coming from." He pushes off the wall, closing the distance between them before Clarke has the time to register his compliment. "Uh, I heard about Collins," he says, his voice softening. Of course he had--not that anyone in Hogwarts would have missed it. Besides, the likelihood that Raven had allowed Finn to escape without some sort of external damage was abysmally low. "Are you alright?"

A blush rises to her cheeks, and Clarke has to blink several times to confirm that the expression he's wearing is one of worry. Is she allowed to be surprised that he's checking up on her? Or that he even cares? Because she amounts it to being hit in the head by too many bludgers. Or maybe just to Octavia voicing too much concern for him to keep quiet.

"Yeah. I guess. I mean, it is what it is." She shrugs, trying to be as nonchalant as possible.

He nods. "Er--good," he says, voice gruff. "He's an arse," he adds, and warmth blooms in her chest.

"You don't have to tell me twice." Clarke offers him the strongest smile she can muster. "You're friends with Raven, right?" She can vaguely recall seeing them together over the past few years, bickering on the Quidditch field or strolling the corridors side-by-side.

"Yeah, she's a pal. I didn't know," he assures her quickly. "We don't really talk about that kind of stuff." What does Bellamy Blake actually talk about with his friends? She suspects Quidditch, girls and firewhiskey, and probably in that order. "It probably doesn't mean much, but...if I'd known, I would've told you." He leans up to scratch the back of his neck.

She regards Bellamy with bated breath, waiting to see if he'll follow up with a snarky comment, or if, perhaps, Peeves will pop out from behind a statue. Maybe he thinks he's said something wrong, because he's just holding his breath and blinking at her through those long lashes. "Thank you," she manages, clearly perplexed, before he's nodding and turning on his heel, loping back around the corner towards Kane's office and muttering something indistinguishable to himself.

From time to time, when Clarke is feeling particularly reclusive, capitalizing on that  _not alone but still lonely_  garbage Wells spouts, her mind flits back to the encounter, to Bellamy's searching eyes and the worry lines on his forehead, and she concludes that if her worst enemy can feel for her, she must be worth feeling something for.

  
*

  
"Clarke."

A few weeks later, she wakes up to Emori poking and prodding at her over her bed covers, but instead groans, rolls over a few times, and shoves her face back into her pillow. " _Idon'twanna._ "

"God, get up, Griffin." Her ears register Murphy's casual drawl, and she bolts upright, yanking the sheets up to cover the perk of her breasts.

"Seriously? You brought Murphy?" She yawns, and his thin, brown hair and signature smirk fall into focus. "I didn't even know he could get up here."

"Yeah, you'd think they'd do something to prevent teenage boys snooping around where they're not wanted," Emori says. "Welcome back to the land of the living." Determining that her roommate is awake enough, she plops down on her own four-poster, right across from Clarke's, which is wrapped top to bottom in photos of some indie wizard rock band.

"She's been worried," Murphy says. He looks in a similar state, slumped down in a chair near the entrance to their dormitory, tossing around a clear object that looks suspiciously like a Remembrall. "Even Professor Sydney's wondering where you've been."

Clarke rubs her eyes. "I find that incredibly hard to believe."

"Well, the more you skip, the more points we're losing from the House Cup, so--"

"Murphy." Emori scowls. "Seriously?"

"I'm trying to be motivating!"

Emori turns to Clarke, and her expression is bright, a stark contrast to the dark tattoos etched across her olive cheeks. "Ignore him. You don't get to be sad for the rest of your life. Collins certainly doesn't deserve that much." She gives her a solid smile, and Clarke feels a sudden rush of affection for her, coupled with a stab of guilt. She's affecting more than just herself with her detachment as of late. "We miss you. Monroe does too. And this one's getting on my nerves." Emori jerks her finger in Murphy's direction.

"Hey," he warns.

"Well, you are." Emori stands, wanders back over to Clarke and offers her hand. "I'm officially cutting you off. We don't exist just to bring you meals, yeah? Put on clothes and let's go get some food in you."

An hour later, they've carved out room for three at the Slytherin table, and Clarke's nose is buried in the depths of the _Daily Prophet_. Her father's daughter, she reads every issue in extensive detail, looking for updates that he won't supply in his letters. She'd updated Murphy and Emori on the situation at the beginning of the year, when attacks had begun to happen more frequently.

"Don't you feel weird reading into the Mountain Men when half our housemates' parents are probably involved with them?" Emori hisses, glancing over her shoulder at an article. The headline, in bolded, blackened letters, reads:'Jaha responds to murdered Muggle village Tondc', and Clarke's stomach drops. "At least do it in the privacy of your own dormitory or you'll walk around with a giant target on your back." Clarke just grits her teeth and shrugs, so Emori adds, teasing, "Bloody Muggle sympathizer."

Clarke feels the scrape of a chair, probably Murphy kicking Emori under the table. "Pretty sure everyone knows where we stand on political issues," Murphy deadpans. "That's kind of the whole concept of being an outcast in this fucking House."

She studies the both of them for a moment. Murphy, as usual, is right; they're Slytherin outcasts. Her mother wouldn't love it, but it makes Clarke kind of proud. Emori's brother is a Squib, and had been disowned by their parents at a young age, which had never sat well with her friend. Murphy, on the other hand--well, he just shows up for whoever he wants, and at this point he happens to be hopelessly taken with Emori. Both have solid reasons for not taking part in the rising pureblood agenda; Clarke believes--no, she knows--they're on the right side of this war.

And okay, maybe she's thrown herself a bit too far into this wizarding revolution thing ever since she'd found out Finn was cheating on her, stashing weird, highlighted copies of the  _Prophet_  under her bed, but she'd give anything to make herself feel useful again, to feel like she can do more than just bide her time until things get dangerous.

Looking at Murphy and Emori, who always seem to have something electric passing between them, Clarke, with a heavy heart, feels more isolated than she thought possible. She knows she can trust them, and had already acted on it in telling them about the Mountain Men, but there's no doubt about it: they're each other's, in a way that she'll never know.

"I stay up to date on this stuff because my family's involved," she says, wary. "And it's important to know what's going on out there. You don't have to like it." She turns the page in her paper without another glance at them, worry rising in her throat. "The castle walls can't protect us forever." Murphy kicks her foot again.

"Griffin, they're probably targeting Mud--" Clarke shoots Murphy an icy look. "Muggle-borns," he clarifies. "Muggle-borns! You didn't even give me the chance to finish."

She reaches across the table to fork over a piece of his last pumpkin pasty. "The next person who tries to tell me that this doesn't affect me and I should just let the grown-ups deal with it is going to be cursed to Albania and back." Beside her, Emori sighs, and Murphy aims a kick at her again. "And which one of you has been trying to play footsy with me for the past ten minutes? Seriously, I don't know what's going on with you two, but I don't want to know."

Her friends are silent, a little too silent, but there's no way they're actually offended. They've said far worse things to one another in the past several years of pestering friendship. Instead, Murphy blinks at something behind her shoulder and says, "You've got some nerve coming over here, you know that?"

She can't explain why--maybe she can just read her friend's tone a little too well at this point--but Clarke's blood turns cold. Murphy's eyes are fixed on the same spot, and she glances behind her to make out an unmistakable figure that could only be Finn Collins hovering there.

"Clarke, can I talk to you?"

At one time, Finn's voice had been soft, melancholic to her ears. Now it seems grating, and she glares at her plate, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a face-to-face encounter. "Whatever you need to say, you can say in front of my friends." Behind her eyes, all she can see is his mouth descending on Raven's, fingers threading in hair so unlike her own.

"You're a fucking idiot, thinking you can mess with Slytherins," Murphy says with practiced aggression, and at Clarke's surprised glance, he mumbles, "What? I'm allowed to care."

"I wasn't trying to mess with anyone," Finn says.

"Well, you did," Emori butts in. "Now leave Clarke alone and go be with your girlfriend."

"Clarke  _is_  my girlfriend." His tone borders on begging.

"Yeah, not anymore, asshole," Clarke says. She's returned to the  _Prophet_  and idly turns another page.

"Can we talk about this in private?" he asks, and she sees him glance around out of the corner of her eye. "You're being kind of intense." Is he worried she's going to ruin his precious reputation, like he hasn't already done that for himself?

Clarke fully turns to look up at him and realizes he's sporting a black eye, as she had suspected might be the case. She'll have thank Raven for that someday.

"I don't take very well to being the other woman, Finn. So watch your back, or we'll both learn just how intense I can be."

He trudges away moments later, not back to the Hufflepuff table but out of the Great Hall entirely, and something lightens in her chest. It can only be described as relief. Turning back to breakfast, she sticks her nose back in the paper, raising her eyebrows at Murphy and Emori, who are watching her, hesitant.

"You know you two aren't who I pegged to become my friends?" she asks.

"You're telling me, Griffin," Murphy says, shaking his head.

  
*

  
Winter hols are somewhat of a disaster that year. Clarke associates the word  _disaster_  with most of her trips home these days.

The Griffin manor is nothing compared to Christmas in the castle. There are no fir trees to be tickled or portraits humming  _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_. Clarke sings to herself instead, stumbling around the thin passageways for exercise, avoiding the family house elves like the plague and locking herself in her bedroom to paint the Hogwarts landscapes until there's no paint left at all. Her parents spend most of the days working, so she owls back and forth with Emori to pass the time.

The disaster element mainly comes into play with her mother. Over the last couple summers, their relationship has become strained at best, and can be easily detailed through various disagreements on Clarke's work ethic, Clarke's relationship with Wells, Clarke's 'phase' with women, and, currently, on which gown Clarke will wear to the Department of Law Enforcement gala.

Her father peeks his head into her room just as she finishes shuffling into a lengthy, silver number that her mom had picked out. The dress is sleeveless and sparkles as she turns to critique herself in the mirror. "You look great, kiddo," Jake says, announcing himself, and she makes a face in response. He releases a thin breath and moves to collapse onto her bed, fingers drumming softly on the quilted comforter. "Want to make a deal?"

Clarke draws her eyes away from the mirror towards him, a tiny grin emerging. "You have my attention."

"One event-- _one event_ , Clarke--where you don't fight with your mother, and you accept the house elves as they are, and I'll answer everything you've been asking about the Mountain Men."

Well, this trade-off she might just be able to manage. "Are you going to start paying ours?" she asks, crossing her arms in reference to the house elves.

"One thing at a time, Clarke. We're working on it."

She sighs, knowing she has no choice but to give in if she wants to a) eat and b) get the information she's been begging for for years now. Throughout the school year, she had made a couple desperate attempts to contact her father, ask about what was happening out in his world in regards to the attacks, but there had only been so much she could put in writing, and only so much he could return.

"Fine. But if she says one thing about my sexuality, it's off the table."

"That's my girl." Jake stands and bends to press a kiss to her cheek.

The gala is, as Clarke had assumed it would be, a pointless affair, located in a beautiful ballroom in East London. The ceiling is charmed to look like a perpetual starry night. Lanterns float through the air as the evening passes. Wells is on vacation for the holiday with his mother, so Clarke mostly trails behind her parents as they shake hands and make small talk. Floating trays of champagne levitate themselves towards anyone with an empty hand, and she downs a few while her mother is preoccupied.

"She's hard on you because she cares," her father explains to her later, after they Apparate home in the aftermath of a quarrel between her and Abby. They had gotten on well for nearly an hour before her mother had offered her up as some sort of consolation prize to a Ministry official's son, and she had stormed off in a tipsy haze.

Now, Jake paces around his study while Clarke lazes about in his armchair, sulking. She feels, vaguely, like she's six again, in a time-out for lighting dinner on fire with her powers by complete accident. "She works all the time, and she's under tremendous pressure from her bosses," he continues. "It's not easy being in charge, you know that, especially right now." Clarke does know; her parents, as high and mighty as they are, have made it harder for her to make friends over the last few years. The notoriety had made Wells popular, but it had solidified her as an outcast instead. She makes a move to interrupt him, but he cuts her off with a stern hand on her shoulder, kneeling down to her eye level. "Don't blame us for wanting what's best for you. When you have kids one day, you'll understand, okay?"

"That's easy for you to say, you're not trying to marry me off to some surly, troll-faced asshat," Clarke huffs.

Her dad grimaces. "People show affection in different ways." He grabs his wand from where it had been lying on a nearby table and twiddles it in his fingers for a moment before shoving it into his pocket. "So what do you want to know, kiddo?"

Her heart jumps in her chest. Clarke and her father, they just get each other. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, and things like that. Though he would do anything for her, and their relationship is one forged by years of playing Wizard's Chess and reading  _Tales of Beedle the Bard_  into the late night, Clarke knows that the fate of the world weighs heavily on his shoulders. She's just not supposed to know that it does.

"I want to know what you're doing," Clarke breathes, "about the Mountain Men."

"I hate that you're so invested in this," he says with a frown.

"I'm invested because you are," she informs him. "It's hard not to notice what's going on, especially in school. Only half of the kids who got sorted into Slytherin this year were pureblood, and it pissed people off. From what I've been tracking in the papers, it's getting worse out there too." She shuffles her feet. "I heard you and Mum talking before I went to school, you know, I've known that there's been unrest in the Ministry for a few years now. People want Muggle-borns out. And with the Mountain Men thing, obviously people think it's worth fighting about." Her tone grows sardonic. "We purebloods are a dying breed."

"We've been fighting blood purists for ages," her dad says, and he sounds tired. "Not all wizards are good, Clarke, you know that."

"Since I've suffered through three and a half years of Diana Sydney's History of Magic lessons, yes, I am very aware."

Jake fiddles with his wand into his pocket, a nervous tick, and reconvenes where Clarke's standing over his workspace, piles of the  _Daily Prophet_  scattered about. "Have you seen him before?" he asks, rifling through one of the issues and stabbing a finger at a picture of a man splayed across the page. It's from a few weeks ago, and Clarke doesn't remember seeing it. The guy in question is old, with tufts of white hair settling atop his head and scarring across the jaw, and he has armored Ministry robes that sway in the moving photograph.

"I haven't," Clarke admits, eyebrows knitting together.

"His name is Dante Wallace. He's one of the Minister's Undersecretaries, with your mother. Ranks above her, actually, but they work together closely."

"And he's not a good guy?" she asks. The question feels childish falling from her lips, and she's suddenly feeling terrified for her mom. Jake looks at her, really looks at her, and Clarke knows he's regarding her as not just as his daughter, but an equal, someone who's experiencing this as much as he is. "He's the one running the Mountain Men," she adds, answering her own question.

"Just because someone's a part of the Ministry doesn't mean they're good." He pauses. Clarke has studied her father's habits for long enough to know he's debating sharing something. "You can't imagine who Wallace is getting on his side, honey. Trolls, giants, werewolves, even goblins, all of the nastiest creatures you could imagine. I don't want to scare you," he says, placing his hands on her cheeks so she'll meet his eyes, "but you need to know what's going on,  even if your mother doesn't like it."

"Doesn't the world need to know?" she asks, nervous all of a sudden. "Can't Wells' dad do anything?"

"It's a little more complicated than that. It's hard to know how much Wallace has really infiltrated us by now, and we still need evidence of what he's doing. It took a few years to find him--if we try to arrest him, people might fight back if he's already gotten to them. Others would have to take sides. It would be messy. And," he releases a breath, "it's possible that, if this all goes south at some point, Thelonious would get caught in the crossfire."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Right now? Trying to take him out. Training some Aurors that I trust, connecting with some Professors at Hogwarts. Trying to intercept wizards, get enough information to catch him."

Clarke's mind is moving far faster than her body as she digests this information. Dante Wallace sounds so eerie, so familiar. She repeats it in her mind over again.

"Wallace." Turning to look at her father, she bites at her thumbnail in deep thought. "He has a son at Hogwarts. Cage. A year older than me, I think, in Slytherin." She twists her lips and adds, "obviously."

"It doesn't mean his son's working with him, Clarke."

"Maybe it does."

"I doubt it." He reaches down to tug at her braid. "You know this isn't on you, right? Even if I do want you to be aware of it. You're allowed to be a teenager. I want you to be. This world--one with bad wizards and fighting for Muggle-born equality and me and your mother working all the time--no part of you should want this. I know you don't want to sit idly by, because you're my daughter, but..." He trails off.

"But?" she prompts him.

"It's not your responsibility," he says, gentle. "You should be off at school, getting into trouble, sneaking out, meeting your best friends, worrying about boys and girls breaking your heart. Worrying about the Mountain Men isn't what I want for you. I'm a parent, that's  _my_  job." He shakes his head. "This doesn't get to get in the way of your real life."

Clarke wants to interject, to remind him that this is her real life, or will soon be. But she recognizes that her father's insistence to shut down the Mountain Men is his way of giving her an adolescence, a life, a future. Keeping the Mountain Men at bay, or occupied within the Ministry, keeps them out of Hogwarts. Keeps them away from Clarke.

"I will be," she says with finality, for his sake, and wraps her arms around her father, clutching him to her. "I'll be safe, and I'll have all those things for myself, I promise."

And she intends to keep that promise.

**Author's Note:**

> So this was originally supposed to be just a lengthy one-shot and here I am, months later, with at least 60k of fic sitting around on my computer that I can't maneuver into anything but a multi-chapter fic. It's not my fault that hp leaves so much room for world-building and I feel the need to develop every relationship in the 100 in excruciating detail, okay, so pls bear with me on this journey~~
> 
> I've been trying to get back into writing in my postgrad haze, so I love you for any feedback, kudos, comments, etc. I hear they help a gal write fast! Stay tuned for actual delinquent friendship building aka where the actual fun begins, bellarke flirting & for some reason angst (b/c I literally turned this into a war fic on accident). xx
> 
> *
> 
> (also, psa, i am fully aware that i'm probably just going to write clarke as an 18 year old, like, all the time, but i just needed seven years to develop maximum capacity of slow burn, ok, plus, you know she was a mature 11 year old, thx)


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